by Jill Cox
“Nope,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “You know I’m onto you, right? The more you put off asking the right questions, the more you prove how badly you want answers.”
“Okay, okay.” I straightened my skirt, then clasped my fingers together. “So? Since when did you and Pete Russell resume communication?”
“Since the week of his birthday.”
“And what prompted this change?”
“No clue.” Dan looked out the window for a moment. “All I know is that Pete called me a couple of days after his birthday and asked me if I could carve out some time for him the weekend of July 7th and 8th. He invited me to go camping.”
“Really? I don’t see you as the outdoorsy type.”
“Hey, Judgy McJudgerson – you’re supposed to ask questions.”
I lifted both hands in surrender. “Fine. Where did you guys go camping?”
He paused. “Devil’s Lake. Down the road from Sutton’s place.”
All at once I understood. Pete had finally spent the anniversary of his parents’ death in Lincoln City. “Did he take you to Sullivan’s?”
“Yes. We ate breakfast there Sunday morning.” Dan shifted over to the seat beside me. “Listen, I know this is none of my business, but maybe you should give real-life Luke a copy of the book he inspired.”
“Um, no, thank you. Have you seen Brooks Darby?”
“Yes, I have. Several times.”
“Great.” I rolled my eyes. “Then you know I’m not exaggerating when I say she is literally the perfect woman.”
“You sure about that?”
“Of course I’m sure! She’s smart, funny, not to mention gorgeous with glossy dark hair. Plus, she’s sufficiently quirky for even the dorkiest of fanboys. Why are you making me spell this out for you?”
“Because so far, your description of Brooks sounds just like Meg Green. And Pete picked you over Meg once upon a time, so why would you think Brooks is any different?”
“Come on, Danny. Don’t mess with me. I heard Pete call her baby this summer with my own two ears.”
“Maybe so,” he shrugged, fixing me with a knowing smile. “But if he’s so in love with Brooks Darby, why did he fly to the Aran Islands to find you on the first Sunday in July?”
“What did you say?”
Dan smirked. “I knew that would get your attention.”
FORTY-FIVE
I was gliding, just like in the movies.
Tonight, we were the ingénue and the hero, floating around the dance floor on a cool autumn evening under the stars in the Tuileries Gardens. And then the music ended, and Luke was still holding me in his arms. I looked up at his face to find equal parts surprise and anticipation.
And warmth.
“You are such a liar, Mac,” Luke said softly. “You do know how to dance.”
“I’ve never danced like that before.”
“I know.” His eyes twinkled. “You weren’t dancing with me.”
It was surreal to read my own words to a group of Americans who could have been me only three years ago. But I knew the noise vibrating inside my head had very little to do with the crowd sitting before me. I had an agenda today: to survive my reading at the Centre Lafayette’s Centennial Anniversary celebration. Afterward? Well, that all depended on my courage.
Luckily, there was no chance real-life Luke would be at this event. In the years since we left Paris, Addison College had moved their graduate program to a different academic center somewhere in the fancy-pants district near the Musée d’Orsay. How did I learn that? Oh, you know – just living my best life, taking advantage of the airline’s free Wi-Fi on the flight to Paris.
Okay, fine. I’m a full-on stalker. Which is how I also knew that Pete’s classes only met on Tuesdays and Thursdays so students could research, work, or travel the rest of the week.
Fortunately, today was Tuesday.
I touched Ian’s charm bracelet at my wrist. The Grande Salle was brimming with people. Students and teachers alike spilled into the small hallway and into the courtyard beyond. It looked a little like Hogwarts, with banners from every college and university represented at the Centre Lafayette blazoning the aisles in alphabetical order.
Halfway back, I spotted Highgate College and smiled.
A hundred years was a big deal, so this event was streaming live to alumni all over the world from a single cameraman’s lens. Madame Beauchamp introduced each of the four alumni speakers she’d invited, and since my portion was less a speech than a reading-plus-Q & A, I was last on the program. Ten minutes into the first speaker’s presentation, I had an epiphany.
Meredith Sullivan, the other three speakers are at least twice your age.
You are not here as a distinguished alumna of the Centre Lafayette.
You, my friend, are Beauchamp’s kid bait.
My heart raced as I stood before the sea of faces – just me, my uncorrected galley of Night and Day, and the billion butterflies fluttering inside my gut. As I read aloud, my words flowed as slowly as molasses. And when I finished, I peered up at the giant clock in the back of the room.
Less than three minutes. How was that possible?
“Merci, Meredith,” Madame Beauchamp said into the microphone as she joined me on the dais. “We will now open the floor to questions. If you will make your way to the microphone here in the center aisle, Meredith will be happy to answer any questions you might have about her debut novel, Night and Day, which was inspired by her time at the Centre Lafayette.”
No one watching the live stream would ever know the behind-the-scenes truth: that Madame Beauchamp had handpicked students to ask me the questions Editor Angie had sent to her in advance. Real questions would have been impossible, of course – no one outside my inner circle had read my book yet. So with each question, I feigned surprise, like I hadn’t been preparing my answers ever since my trip to New York the previous month. They lobbed, I volleyed back.
“How long have you wanted to write?”
Since I could read. When I was a kid, I used to tell myself stories to fall asleep.
“What was your favorite part about studying at the Centre Lafayette?”
I should probably say class, shouldn’t I? But no, it was the coffee machine. Duh.
“Was the brilliant history professor in Night and Day Monsieur Ludovic?”
Monsieur Ludovic promptly stood up from his seat near the back and waved. “Oui, c’est moi!” He shouted. “Merci, Mayr-ay-deet! Merci beaucoup!”
When we reached the end of the predetermined questions, Madame Beauchamp returned to the microphone. But just as I was about to return to my seat, she placed her hand on my back. “We have time for one last question,” she said, a wry smile playing on her lips. “Would anyone else like to volunteer?”
The jumble of people in the hallway began to sway as someone pushed forward from outside in the courtyard. And as the hive split open, that someone strode confidently to the microphone in the center of the aisle with a baby blue #TeamLuke t-shirt under a navy blazer.
The cocky swagger from our Highgate days was back. His curls weren’t nearly as shaggy as they’d appeared back in June, but judging by the stubble on his face, he hadn’t reverted to his early-days-of-Paris grooming habits either.
In fact, if I hadn’t known better, I would swear this Pete had hopped in a time machine from our summer together in Ireland. Because when his eyes lifted to meet mine, the past two-and-a-half years disappeared before my eyes.
“Hey, Meredith – uh… Miss Sullivan? Yeah, hi. I’m Pete Russell.” From an inner pocket of his blazer, he brandished a well-worn copy of Night and Day in the air. “My colleague in New York recently sent me this advance galley of your novel, and since this is the final question, I think I’ll ask the one thing everyone’s dying to know. Is ‘Luke’ here at the Centre Lafayette today?”
The room began to buzz as students craned their necks, chattering to one another.
“Are you kidding me wi
th this?” I said quietly into the microphone, a smile creeping into my lips. “You could ask me any question in the world right now, and that’s what you picked?”
“Absolutely,” he said, lifting an eyebrow that only I could see. “Any idiot would recognize your novel is a roman à clef, which means Luke must have a real-life counterpart. Is he the camera guy? That’s my guess. He did just spend the past half-hour ogling you through that lens.”
The cameraman jerked away from his tripod, flicking his head back and forth so rapidly between Pete and me that he actually appeared guilty. The audience began to murmur again, staring at the cameraman’s ever-reddening face, which only served to embolden Pete.
“Come on, everybody,” he shouted to the crowd, temporarily turning his back to me. “Chant it with me now. We want Luke! We want Luke!”
The volume in the room raised to an all-time high as the kids followed Pete’s chant.
We want Luke!
We want Luke!
We want Luke!
Pete’s eyes stayed fixed on mine, a wry grin tugging at his mouth. “What can I say, Meredith?” he shouted into the mic as the chants dissipated. “The people have spoken.”
I couldn’t help but smile back at Pete, aware that hundreds of eyes were watching, but for the first time in my life, I did not care. If the students could have seen the way Pete was looking at me, they would have known right away who he was.
Luke Jameson was here – off the page and in the flesh.
“Here’s the thing, uh… what was your name again? Pete?” I took the microphone off its stand and strolled to the edge of the stage, crouched down so that I was eye level with him. “Surely someone as old as you knows it’s best to stick with your gut in these situations. So what’s your gut telling you right now?”
Pete pretended to think for a moment as he rolled the paperback in on itself. “Okay,” he shrugged. “First, my gut’s telling me this camera guy’s the type to go halfsies on a first date. Which might be a bummer if my gut didn’t also insist you’re still hung up on the dude who inspired Loser Luke.”
“Am I?”
“Um, hello. You wrote a book about him.”
The audience oooh’ed.
“Not that he deserves you,” he smirked. “In fact, why don’t you forget about him and meet me later on that bridge… The Pont des Arts, is it? Maybe you and I could make some new memories there.”
“Um, are you hitting on me? Because Luke might not like you messing with his girl.”
Pete looked over both his shoulders at the audience, then leaned forward into the microphone. “Tell the truth, Ginger Rogers – you made this whole swing dance fantasy up, right? No self-respecting guy would waste all that time trying to win a girl by lindy-hopping at her.”
“Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”
“Is that an invitation?” He purred into the microphone while turning the pages of my book toward me. Except it wasn’t just the pages of the book. Inside, on a piece of notebook paper that only I (and the people behind me on the stage) could see, Pete had scribbled:
PLEASE FORGIVE ME
I NEVER DESERVED YOU
(BUT I’D LIKE TO TRY)
As he closed the book and slipped it back inside his blazer, I pretended to think for a moment, tugging the tiny silver chain holding our padlock key from its hiding place under my sweater. “First of all, real-life Luke is not a loser,” I said, patting the key. “And despite what you might think, old-school romance is still a pretty effective weapon these days. Even for someone as brazen as you.”
For a long moment, Pete stared at the key hanging around my neck as though he couldn’t decide if it was real. But then a smile I hadn’t witnessed in a very long time crept into every inch of his face, and to my surprise, his cheeks burst into color.
“Brazen? Is that what you call this?” He laughed, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Alrighty then. Challenge accepted, Sully.”
Pete lifted the phone in the air so that everyone could see. With a dramatic arc of his finger, he pressed the screen. And just like that, I Want You Back streamed through the Bluetooth speakers.
The jaunty intro bounced off the walls of the Grande Salle like the Jackson Five themselves were in the room. Channeling his latent inner Ducky Shincracker, Pete shimmied and grooved his way back down the center aisle, fist-bumping and high-fiving strangers like it was all part of a well-choreographed stunt. Two hundred students and faculty cheered at the top of their lungs until he reached the back door, where he bowed deeply, winked, and disappeared into the crowd.
FORTY-SIX
Pete was sitting on the centermost bench of the Pont des Arts, facing west toward the Eiffel Tower. I watched him for a long moment before he ever sensed my presence, marveling at the way he morphed from that guy – the self-assured charmer with the cocky smile – to this guy.
The real Pete. The one he only showed to the people he trusted most.
When he saw me approaching, Pete jumped to his feet, shifting his weight from foot to foot and fidgeting with his shirt like a twelve-year-old boy at a middle school dance.
“Nice t-shirt,” I nodded as I reached him. “Where’d you get it?”
“What, this old thing?” He pulled the lapels of his blazer open, puffing out his chest. “Everyone knows how to iron letters on t-shirts, Sully. DIY is all the rage these days, isn’t it?”
“Sure it is.” I grabbed his left blazer lapel and swiped Night and Day from the inside pocket. “Looks like I need to have a talk with Dan Thomas. What was he thinking, sending you trash fiction to read right in the middle of midterms?”
“Um, are you kidding? Life hack, Sully: if a miser like Dan Thomas ever spends a hundred bucks overnighting you a novel, you drop everything on your agenda and read it immediately. And then you read it two more times, just to make sure the message soaked in.”
“You didn’t read my book three times.”
“Yes. I did.” He slipped one arm around me, pulling me so close that I could feel his heart thumping wildly in his chest. “Do you have any idea how that felt, Sully? Reading your words was like… like I was hanging out with your soul or something.”
“My soul? You talk crazy sometimes.”
“Sometimes?” He laughed. “According to your story, I have zero command over the English language. Do you know how many times Luke sent Allie the wrong message? Forty-three. I counted.”
“Yes, well, that’s because this copy doesn’t contain the author’s annotations.” Tucking Dan’s copy into my messenger bag, I handed Pete my author copy. “Here you go.”
Pete opened the front flap as we sat down together on our favorite bench. For the previous few weeks as I’d traveled up and down the East Coast, I’d scribbled notes in the margins or tiny doodles of the two of us, acting out the real-life story. And on the very first page, I’d written Pete his own inscription:
for Pete, whose heart I still miss every day of my life.
love, Sully (16 October)
Despite the bent of his head, I could see a smile creeping into his face. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed your little doodles,” he said, lifting his eyes to mine. “Thank you, Sully.”
“You’re welcome. I figured a scholar like you would appreciate an annotated copy. Besides, it’s a thing people do these days. I figured I should practice on you first.”
“Funny you should say that.” He pulled his messenger bag around to the front, unzipped it, and after he slipped my copy of Night and Day inside, he pulled out a blue journal decorated with dozens of old-fashioned skeleton keys. “This is for you. Open it.”
I turned to the front page.
Dear Sully, it began. “What is this? Your diary?”
“Sort of.” A goofy grin spread across Pete’s face. “I figured a wordsmith might respond better to letters than flowers. Plus, Marshall Freeman ruined chocolate for you, so …”
“Letters? Plural?” I trailed my finger over the date at the t
op of the page. June 25th. Pete’s birthday. Then I flipped through to the end. “Every page is full, Pete.”
He chewed on his lip as he lifted his eyes to mine. “I know. I bought two notebooks this summer. I filled this one up in June. After Dan sent me your book, I filled up the second one with more stories I needed to tell you. But that one’s on its way to the Juniper House.”
“Why?”
“Oh, you know. Some tales are better read alone by the sea with a huge thermos of coffee that you can chuck at nearby cyclists instead of at me.”
I hugged the journal to my chest, smiling. “I can’t believe you wrote me letters.”
“You wrote me a book. My therapist Dr. Keating had a lot to say about that, by the way.”
“Keating? Your therapist is Irish?”
“Irish, and from County Clare, so it’s a little like hanging out with your dad three times a week.” Pete shook his head, grinning. “At our first meeting, he asked me to pick a person – living or dead – and tell them a story they don’t know. So I picked you.”
“Not your mom and dad? Why?”
Pete tucked my hair behind my ear. “Because you’re the one who matters most, Sully. I figured it was high time you understood why.”
I looked back down at the journal, trailing my finger along its spine. A notebook full of words – our story from a different lens. “And when I finish reading?”
Pete’s dark eyes glittered in the afternoon sun. “Write me back. You know my address.”
“Wouldn’t a text be faster?”
“Maybe. But I can wait. You waited for me.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “You waited all summer after I bolted to China. All of senior year. You gave me a lot of time to get my act together, Sully. I think I can handle a week or two.”
And then he kissed me. It wasn’t like the feverish kiss in Nice or the smoldering kiss the night he first told me he loved me. This kiss was tentative. Hesitant. Like he wasn’t quite sure his lips belonged on mine. So I grabbed both of his blazer lapels and pulled him gently toward me.
